On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly;—
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's brook,
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
The admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
}
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood, }
Repelling from his breast the raging god; }